


put away the pills (come waste away with me)

by endlessnighttimesky



Series: count your blessings [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcoholism, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of Drug Abuse, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnighttimesky/pseuds/endlessnighttimesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s three days after Osaka that Gerard’s breaks down and tells Frank everything. He thinks that maybe he should’ve done it sooner, at least the telling-Frank-everything part, but then he thinks that, perhaps, this is how it should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put away the pills (come waste away with me)

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is based on true events, but I have no affiliation with MCR whatsoever, and I've taken a great deal of liberty with the canon.
> 
> Title is from _The Ballad of Tommy Clayton & The Rawdawg Millionaire_ by Of Mice & Men.

It’s after forty-five minutes of throwing up into a trashcan on a backstreet in Osaka that Gerard decides to go cold turkey.

Mikey’s been sitting pressed up against the brick wall the entire time, one hand curled up in front of his face as he watches his brother hit rock bottom. Bob and Ray are sitting on either side of him, as if he’ll fall without their physical support.

Frank holds back Gerard’s hair, even when Gerard slaps his hand away and says he isn’t a fucking girl.

“That’s sexist,” Frank says, and keeps carding his fingers through the greasy, tangled strands while his other hand rests heavy and comforting on Gerard’s warm back.

Gerard laughs, short and loud and honest, and in the corner of his eye Frank can see Mikey smiling, small, but there nonetheless.

“I’m so fucking done with this shit,” Gerard declares as he spits into the can one last time. “I’m not doing this anymore.”

“You can’t go cold turkey, Gee, that shit’s dangerous,” Frank says, settling beside Gerard on the pavement.

“I don’t care,” Gerard says, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I’m done. It’s not worth it.”

“Was it ever?” Mikey pipes up, voice coming out muffled from behind his hand. He’s fixing Gerard with that gaze, the one that says everything with merely a glance.

“No,” Gerard says, sounding so regretful it’s almost painful to hear. “It never was.”

§ § §

It’s three days after Osaka that Gerard’s breaks down and tells Frank everything. He thinks that maybe he should’ve done it sooner, at least the telling-Frank-everything part, but then he thinks that, perhaps, this is how it should be.

He’s in the basement of his parents’ house, staring up at the ceiling as he lies on his bed, hands shaking where they’re clasped on his chest.

“And I think I’ll blow my brains against the ceiling,” he sings quietly, words only mere mumbles. “And as the fragments of my skull beings to fall…”

The door opens. Frank steps inside and Gerard gets a quick peek of the outside world, the sun and the sky and everything he hasn’t seen ever since he got home. It’s all too bright, too happy for him to put up with. He wants the darkness of the basement and the comfort of his own bed. A body beside him. Frank.

“Lie down with me,” Gerard says, scooting to the side as Frank approaches the bed.

Frank doesn’t question him; it’s not like they’ve never done this before. Saying that he doesn’t want to be close to Gerard while he detoxes would be a lie, but so would saying that it doesn’t feel different. Frank doesn’t know what’s changed, because apart from the obvious, they’re still just Frankie and Gee, they’re still My Chemical Romance, they’re still _them_. So why does everything feel so strange all of a sudden?

“Weren’t you gonna go out with Mikey?” Gerard asks once Frank has settled, still staring at the ceiling, pretending it’s the sky and that the painted stars are light-years away. It makes him feel insignificant, like he doesn’t matter, and it makes everything – the harsh truth, in particular – easier to handle.

“Yeah,” is all Frank says, not providing an explanation, not telling Gerard how fucking terrified he is to leave him alone, how scared he is that something’s gonna happen. That when he gets home Gerard won’t be sober, won’t be _breathing_.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Gerard says, but he doesn’t sound angry, just sounds like he’s stating a fact. Like he’s okay with Frank being afraid. Like he is too.

“Never said you did,” Frank says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s not here on suicide watch, or whatever the fuck it is Gerard thinks he’s here for. He’s here because he _wants_ to be, because ever since he joined this fucking band he hasn’t wanted anything but to be by Gerard’s side through whatever shit they get thrown at them. This is not an obligation for him, not a responsibility. Fear might be a part of it, he’s man enough to admit that, but it’s far from everything.

Gerard accepts the answer, because although Frank hasn’t said a fraction of everything that he’s thinking, Gerard understands. Those four words explain, if not everything, then at least enough.

He’s quiet for a while, before he says, “I didn’t pack.” They’re both still staring at the ceiling, shoulders and hips pressing together where they’ve crammed themselves onto Gerard’s tiny bed.

“Yeah, I saw,” Frank says, glancing to where Gerard’s almost empty suitcase is lying open on the floor.

“I didn’t think I was coming back,” Gerard continues, voice low and small, as if saying everything out loud will somehow make it real. As if it isn’t already. “I didn’t want to come back.”

Gerard’s words make Frank feel hopeless, desperate and miserable and fucking _terrified_. He feels guilty, because he’s not the one who wants to die, not the one who’s alcoholic and depressed and addicted to every fucking prescription pill money can buy. _And_ coke. He’s not the one who should be so afraid it keeps him up at night. That should be Gerard, and while it probably is, it definitely shouldn’t be Frank.

But it is, and it’s been for years, even since Gerard threw himself face-first into the world of Xanax and Daniel’s and white lines on mirrors. It’s not like Frank stood completely outside this world, but Gerard practically bought a home there, white picket fence and two-point-five kids. He lived it, while Frank watched from the other side, feet planted firmly on the ground while Gerard soared high.

“I feel like such a fucking fake,” Gerard says, eyes still intent on the ceiling. He doesn’t know why he’s so afraid of facing Frank. Maybe because right now, _facing_ has two meanings to him.

“I think it’s more the opposite,” Frank says, because unlike all the psychiatrists that just gave Gerard a prescription for Valium and told him to move on, Gerard actually knows what it’s like to be fucked up. He, if anyone, is entitled to tell people what to do when things get rough, which all those mind-benders they’ve all went to see once or twice aren’t, with their degrees and diplomas and no actual experience whatsoever.

“How?” Gerard asks, unable to see what Frank means, because the self-hatred is weighing heavy in his chest, making it impossible to breathe, to think or speak or do anything but lie in bed stare at hand-painted stars.

“You know what it’s like,” Frank starts explaining. “You know what it’s like to feel jaded, hopeless and worthless and stuck in a life you don’t want but can’t make yourself end. Just because you don’t follow your own advice doesn’t mean you’re a fake, doesn’t mean you’re a hypocrite. You’re just… _you_ , with everything that comes with. We all have shit to deal with.  Doesn’t make you worth any less.”

“I’m turning that into a song,” is the first thing Gerard’s mind comes up with.

“But you already _have_ ,” Frank says, wanting to just grab Gerard’s face and stare at him until he gets it, until he understands how fucking important he is. “It’s what we’ve been about all along. Keeping people alive. Keeping ourselves alive.”

Gerard is quiet for a minute or two, but it’s not that kind of silence where Frank can practically hear the gears turning inside Gerard’s head. It’s more like… processing, letting everything sink in.

“Think happy thoughts?” he says eventually, voice cautious like he might be wrong.

For the first time since he lay down on Gerard’s bed, Frank shifts, turning onto his side so he can see Gerard properly. From that distance, barely a hand-width away, Frank can see how Gerard’s eyelashes flutter when he blinks, how his skin moves as he bites the inside of his cheek, how his tongue darts out occasionally to wet his lips.

It’s a fucking beautiful sight, and the thought of losing it, losing _Gerard_ , makes Frank’s stomach twist, his chest constrict and heart clench.

“And we’ll fly home,” he mumbles, pressing his lips to Gerard’s cold, clammy cheek as he reaches out for his hands, cupping one of his own around them where they’re still trembling, pale skin contrasting to the washed-out black of Gerard’s t-shirt.

“You and I,” Gerard says, willing his fingers to move and intertwine with Frank’s. When he turns his head, Frank’s right there, all huge eyes and soft lips, and Gerard would dare anyone not to kiss Frank in that moment.

So he gives in. After years of holding himself up with liquor and illegal substances, he lets himself fall, knowing Frank will catch him before he hits the ground.

It feels like coming home, Gerard thinks. It feels like when his mom opened the front door yesterday morning, only to find a skinny, disheveled version of her son standing on the doorstep. It feels like when she pulled him inside, no questions asked, and wrapped him in her arms, holding him until he ran out of tears. It feels like when Mikey joined them, taking Gerard into his lanky embrace and promising him that everything was going to be alright.

Yeah, it’s like coming home. Frank is familiar, he’s safety and comfort, and he’s _Gerard’s_. No one else can have him now, and if Gerard gets to decide, not ever again.

Yet, he can’t help but worry. There’s a reason he was prescribed Xanax in the first place. He worries endlessly, about everything between heaven and earth, and even beyond that sometimes, so he needs Frank to promise him that this isn’t just something he does to get Gerard’s mind off things for a while. He knows Frank wouldn’t do it for shits and giggles, sure, but still… He worries.

“You have to tell me, though,” Gerard says as they pull apart, hands scrabbling frantically at Frank’s face as if the moment he lets go this will all disappear, like a mirage in a desert, fleeting and insubstantial. Unreal. “That this isn’t – that it’s not – ”

“It’s not,” Frank whispers against the corner of Gerard’s mouth, one arm slung over his side, hand pressing between his shoulder blades. “I promise. And if you need me to wait, I’ll do that. I just need you to know that I’ll always be here.”

“No, I don’t – I don’t want to wait. I want you with me. Through everything.”

“Then I’ll be here,” Frank says, before he leans in and attaches his lips to Gerard’s again. Gerard’s mouth opens under his after only seconds, but his eyes are closed tight, temples tense. Frank unwinds his arm from around Gerard’s back, bringing it up to cup his face instead. He feels the tension pour out of Gerard, as if someone just opened a tap, flicked a switch, letting him release everything he’s kept bottled up inside for so long.

The kiss is slow and soft, tongues moving gently. The only contrast is Gerard’s sharp teeth, digging into Frank’s bottom lip like having his arms wrapped around Frank isn’t enough to keep him where he is.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Frank says when they break apart, a tiny smile on his face, proud and hopeful, eyes warm and comforting like nothing else.

 _Yeah_ , Gerard thinks. _This is how it should be._


End file.
